A Heart Arcane
by iambeagle
Summary: There are people you get over. And then there's Edward Cullen.
1. September 1

**Hey, people. This is going to be kind of short. Maybe? Like 10 tiny chapters? I should probably know this. But I don't. All I do know is that I don't own Twilight. **

* * *

**...**

It's the beginning of September. The air is crisp: orange, yellow, and red all around, from the leaves hiding the pavement, to the sunset painted across the sky.

I keep an eye out for a cab, picking up my pace as quickly as I can in the heels I'm wearing. If I weren't already running late, I'd have time to change out of my work clothes—pencil-straight black skirt and plain white blouse—before heading to my friend Angela's birthday party.

But I am late. I'm always late, and Angela is going to give me hell.

One expensive cab ride later and I'm stepping out of the elevator and onto Angela and Ben's floor. I can hear music drifting down the hall from their apartment.

Van Morrison.

I want to hug whoever's in charge of music tonight. Angela and Ben hardly ever steer from their usual party mix, which consists of Wilco, Coldplay, and Jack Johnson.

I don't bother knocking before walking in. A few people chatting near the door greet me. We've met before, so I smile, but I don't stay to join their conversation.

Making my way toward the master bedroom, I take off my coat and toss it on the pile of jackets and scarves lying on the bed.

"Look who decided to finally show up." I spin around to see Angela shaking her head. She's wearing the little black dress she picked out at Saks last week.

"That dress is stunning on you," I tell her, sending her a smile.

She's not taking the bait. "You're over an hour late to your best friend's birthday."

"I know. I got held up at the gallery. Please don't hate me?"

"Your punishment is that I didn't bother saving you any jalapeño peppers."

"That's a cruel punishment. Those are my favorite."

Her laugh is light as she eyes my clothes. "Do you want to change? You can go through my closet."

I shrug. "I'm okay."

"Yeah, but..." She pauses. "There's someone here I want you to meet."

I sigh. She's always trying to set me up. I'd tell her no, but I don't have it in me to fight. Especially since I know what she'll say, which will be something along the line of I need to move on.

Being in an on-again off-again relationship for the last four years can take a toll on a person. It fucks with your head. It makes you weak and vulnerable, and I know I should move on. I know this.

We were only twenty-two when we first met. Young. He broke my heart. I broke his, too. We were terrible together, but so good. I loved him hard, and hated him harder. We were push and pull, give and take.

Then one day he stopped giving and only started taking. Love is supposed to make you stronger, not suck the life out of you. So we broke up. Then we got back together. We went through that five times, each beginning more hopeful than the ending.

But things don't work out sometimes.

That's what he said to me this last time we broke up. And I haven't heard from him since. Five months and nothing. It's the longest we've gone without speaking.

There are people you get over, and then there's Edward Cullen.

"So?" Angela says. I realize I missed everything she said. "He's nice, Bella."

They're always nice.

But they're not Edward.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, y'all y'all y'all.  
****  
Kim and Vic... you know.****  
**


	2. September 23

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**September**  
**…**

A few weeks after Angela's party, I'm on date number five with Peter, the man she introduced me to.

Happy hour turns to dinner which then turns into after-dinner drinks and fucking in his bed.

He's nice and his friends are nice and the sex is nice and everything is just so nice.

But more often than not, nice isn't enough.

My phone rings in the middle of the night. I silence it before Peter wakes up. I sneak out of his room as I reject the call.

The kitchen is dark, but I stand here, staring at the screen until it lights up again with a second call.

He breathes into the phone, but doesn't say a word.

"Hello?" I whisper.

"You sent me to voicemail?" Edward asks, irritated.

"It's after two. I was sleeping."

"Where are you?"

"I just said I was sleeping," I say, letting him assume I'm at home. We don't need to have this unnecessary conversation.

"I saw you earlier tonight," he says, voice lower than before. "Eating dinner with someone."

"Oh." I clutch the phone closer to my ear, as if that brings me closer to him. I don't know how he saw me without me seeing him. "You should've said hi."

He laughs. It's deep and just the way I remember. "I'm saying hi now."

"Where have you been?" I question. I shouldn't want to know, but I can't help myself. "What have you been doing?"

"Thinking about you."

I hate him.

I hate this game.

"Edward, stop."

"Bella. No." His tone is teasing and lazy. I've heard it enough times to know he's drunk.

I swallow hard, then press my fingers to my temple. I'm standing in another man's kitchen, wearing another man's shirt, and I'm talking to my ex-boyfriend. I should feel terrible, but I don't.

"Come over," he commands. "I'll pay for your cab."

I know he would. He's done this before; called me over in the middle of the night. And I go over, because I can't not. Then we hang out for a few months, get back together, I fall hard, then we break up. He won't let himself love me. Not really. Not the way I love him. And as much as I want to see him, as much as I want him to want me again, I can't put myself through this anymore.

"Edward, I can't, okay?"

"Yes, you can," he argues.

"Why now? We haven't seen each other in months."

I want the truth, but I know he won't give it to me. I want to hear him admit he's always wanted what he can't have.

But maybe the truth is that he can have me.

Maybe I've been the one lying.

Before he says another word, the faint sound of the toilet flushing echoes through the apartment. My body tenses.

I tell Edward I have to go and hang up before he has a chance to convince me otherwise.


	3. October 24

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**October**  
**…**

I'm standing outside a small art gallery in Brooklyn, smoking a cigarette when I see him.

I don't know if he deliberately avoids my eyes, but he greets the few people I'm standing with before he looks at me.

I wonder if he remembers calling a month ago, asking me to come over. Because I haven't forgotten.

When everyone's been acknowledged and I'm the only one left, he doesn't say my name, just holds my gaze.

With an inhale, I nod.

I don't think he remembers calling.

I stay silent as the people around me talk to him. They act like he's the fucking life of the party. All laughing and smiling as he speaks animatedly about some obscure art store he stumbled upon last week.

I hate that we run with the same crowd. I hate that we have the same friends, yet he still manages to disappear from time to time without me knowing what he's doing.

I turn to my left and blow smoke over my shoulder to avoid looking at him while he talks.

Cigarettes are smoked, new plans are made, and then everyone goes inside.

Edward and I stay where we are.

Like we're stuck.

"Smoke with me?" he asks, pulling a pack from the pocket of his jeans. He's not wearing a belt, and I wonder how they stay there, just hanging off his hips.

I shake my head at his request and sip my warm white wine.

But I don't move.

"Stay with me while I smoke, then."

"I thought you quit," I accuse with a small laugh.

He smirks. "When?"

"I don't know. Last I heard, you stopped."

"Who told you that?"

"People talk."

"Have you been asking about me, Bella?"

My smile fades. His arrogance shines. "No."

With the filter between his lips, he says, "You don't have to lie."

A breeze picks up, and he creates a shield with his hand to protect the flame.

"I'm not lying. Your name came up a few months ago. Ben heard from someone, who heard from you that you'd tried to stop smoking."

I hate that I'm even explaining myself to him right now. But I don't want him to think I've been asking about him. Don't want to feed his ego.

Smoke appears with his laugh. "I did try to stop. It didn't work."

"Clearly."

"Clearly," he repeats quietly, eyes intent on my face.

"You called me," I blurt out, because I want him to be aware of his moment of weakness. Want to make him feel human. "A few weeks ago."

He stares at the burning end of his vice. "Did I?"

"You did."

"And did you answer?"

I decide to lie. "No."

"Well, that's rude."

"So is calling someone in the middle of the night," I quip. "Why would you have been calling?"

"I probably just wanted to talk," he says, voice earnest. "I miss you sometimes, you know?"

I do know.

All too well.

His gaze is heavy and the drink in my hand is warm. He crushes burnt tobacco beneath his boot. I wish I had the will to walk away. Leave him here, on this sidewalk, with nothing but ash that will eventually scatter.

"So I'm about to head out," he mumbles, further proving he's never had trouble walking away.

"You just got here."

He looks to his right, toward the entrance of the gallery.

"I have this thing to go to."

I laugh. He's so vague and always disappearing and I don't want him to go. I want to be the first to leave for once.

"Come with me," he murmurs.

"What?"

"You should come with me."

"To your thing," I state.

He takes the clear plastic cup of wine from my hand, and finishes it for me. Because he still thinks whatever's mine is his. And I don't tell him otherwise.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Bella."

"I know," I reply with more attitude than I should.

He finds a nearby trashcan for the cup, then fists his hair. "I had no intention of coming here tonight."

"Oh?"

"I heard you were here, though."

I don't know how to react to this. I don't want him to know I love that he came here solely for me.

"You were asking about me?" I ask, teasing.

He breaks out into a smile, and it catches me off guard how much I've missed seeing it.

"People talk," he says, repeating my earlier words.

I can't help but laugh. He makes it so easy, and I hate that.

"So?" he prompts.

We stand here, stuck in this awkward limbo of not wanting to be the one who makes the first move. Not wanting to give the other all the power.

But then he takes his hand out of his pocket and holds it out to me.

I offer him my hand and he laces our fingers together.

And for once, it feels like he's the one giving and I'm the one taking.


	4. November 12

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**November  
...**

I wake up to an empty bed.

The sky beyond the windows is still dark.

My eyes close again, and I run my palm across the sheet next to me. It's cold.

He does this. It's nothing new. He thinks I don't notice, but how would I not notice when he's gone?

Sitting up, I stretch my arms above my head, then grab one of his shirts from the floor.

I find him sitting on the fire escape, smoking a cigarette.

He turns back slightly before I reach the window. Like he can feel my presence.

I'm greeted with no smile. No sign that he wants me here.

He holds up the half-smoked tobacco in offering, then reaches out a hand to help me crawl through the window.

He keeps his grip on my hand, pulling me down into his lap.

And then he does things like this which make me believe he does want me here.

With a kiss to the side of my neck, he holds the cigarette to my lips. I suck in, breathe in, like it's him.

"Couldn't sleep," he mumbles.

His hand rubs up and down my thigh. It's cold and rough.

"How long have you been out here?" I ask quietly.

"An hour or two."

In a week it'll be three hours. Then four. And eventually he'll stop sleeping altogether. And that's when I'll know it's over.

I'm always on edge with him, an expiration date forever looming in my mind.

My back is to his chest, and if I look at him right now I might say things I'll regret. Might ask him to give me answers to questions that keep me awake at night.

We've been at this for weeks. This stupid game, not wanting to label anything. Not wanting to create complications by talking about what we are. But his bed is the one I sleep in, and my name is the one he groans out when he comes.

"Hey," he says softly. "Bella."

"Yeah?"

"Move in with me."

Beneath us, a car drives by, disturbing this moment, and I think maybe I misheard him. "What?"

"I want you to move in with me."

I sit forward, swinging my legs around so I can face him. He focuses on my lips, nose, eyes, and when he finally meets my gaze, he smiles. It's so sincere, the expression he gives me, and I wish he knew what he looked like right now.

It makes my stomach flutter and my heart beat faster.

It makes me feel like maybe he really is mine.

"Why?" I question.

I'm hesitant, and with good reason. We've never talked about this before, living together. We've never talked about anything that would make us long-term, make this last.

"Because I want you here all the time," he confesses.

"What about my place?"

"Sublet it if you want," he suggests so casually. "Or we can move there. I don't care."

A crease forms between my brows. He brings a hand up and gently rubs it away with his thumb.

"Stop," he whispers, then leans forward and presses his lips to my jaw. He kisses his way to my mouth. "You can think about it."

"You work here," I tell him. "You paint here. I'd be in your way."

"You wouldn't be in my way. Bella, just think about it. Before you say no."

I know I shouldn't jump into anything. That wouldn't be wise. I should weigh the pros and cons. I should make him work for this, for us, but I don't know how to not give him what he wants.

And right now, he wants me.

So I tell him yes.


	5. November 19

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**November  
...**

It's the third week in November when I meet Angela for lunch. It's already too cold, this New York Autumn. The sky is grey, overcast, and the wind is fierce.

There are tables lining the area in front of the restaurant. Angela waves me over.

I adjust the thick scarf around my neck, the one that Edward wore last night when we took a walk. The one he wrapped around my neck before pulling me into a kiss.

"Where have you been lately?"

It's the first thing she asks when I sit down at the tiny table for two. She's already ordered a salad, a sign that I'm late.

Her question isn't one of accusation. Merely curiosity. But my conscience is guilty, therefore I'm on the defense.

"What do you mean?" I ask, trying to buy time. She doesn't know I've been spending time with Edward again. Doesn't know he asked me to move in last week.

And she isn't going to.

Because I don't want to hear what she has to say. Don't want to hear her speech about how Edward isn't good enough. How I shouldn't allow him to have this power over me.

Things are different this time. I see it in his eyes when I catch him staring at me. I feel it in the way his fingers press into my skin as I move on top of him. I taste it in his kisses and hear it in the way he says my name.

I see, feel, taste, hear everything when I'm with him. Like all my senses are muted when I'm not.

Angela waves a hand in front of my face. "Bella?"

"Sorry." I force a laugh. "Work has been crazy."

A menu is in my hand, a distraction from her eyes.

"How's Peter?" she questions as I sip my water. "Are you still seeing him?"

"Kind of. We're taking things slow."

It's a small lie. Things are so slow that they're at a standstill. I hardly ever see him, hardly ever return his calls. I can't bring myself to tell him it isn't going anywhere. My reasons are selfish. If Angela were to think he and I weren't seeing each other anymore, there'd be more questions. More men to set me up with.

But since I give her the answer she wants, the subject is dropped.

Food is ordered, wine is consumed, and eventually goodbyes are said.

We pull away from a hug, and she gives me a look. She searches my face, only for a second, lips pressed into a line.

I know there's no way she could know what's going on, but for a split second, I wonder if she does.

It makes my pulse race.

I crave the feeling that comes with having Edward as my secret.

"Can we hang out this weekend? I miss you."

I nod. I say I miss her, too, but that's not true. I've been so consumed with Edward, Edward, Edward recently, I haven't had a chance to think about anyone else.

We make plans to meet up over the weekend. But nothing's set in stone; it's something I can easily break.

Something I can destroy with just a few words.


	6. December 3

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**December**  
**…**

Edward kisses me awake.

My eyes flutter open as his mouth travels to my jaw, my neck, my chest, my stomach. And then his head is between my legs.

He presses soft kisses to the inside of my thigh: one, two, three. Everywhere but the one place I'm dying for him to be. I squirm a bit, needing his mouth on me again. But he doesn't give in. He wants me to beg.

"Edward..." I breathe out. "Please."

I feel the warm air of his laugh against my skin.

I fist his hair, tangling my fingers in the strands, but he still doesn't make a move. He's stalling. Waiting. Wants me to ache for his touch.

And I do. I always have.

"Tell me what you want, Bella," he taunts, slipping a finger inside of me.

But he doesn't need me to tell him. He just knows. Being together like this has never been about not knowing what we want.

He fucks me with his fingers, his mouth. My ass lifts from the mattress and I push against his face. I'm so close, so eager for this feeling he orchestrates.

The sensation builds and builds, and just as soon as it was created, it topples over, taking me with it. I pant his name until I can't breathe or think.

My body stills, limbs heavy, but my chest heaves.

Edward moves to lie next to me, fingers lazily tracing circles along my stomach.

"I love you like this," he whispers roughly.

His words tug at my heart.

"You love me like what? Naked and willing in your bed?" I'm teasing, but there's a slight vulnerability in my words.

I want him to reassure me this is more than just sex. He fucking asked me to move in. It has to be more.

He smiles smugly as he gently squeezes my breast, then covers it with his mouth.

When I don't react, he pauses—pulls back. He searches my face. But the room is dim, only lights that brighten the night sky filling the room. There's no way he can see the doubt I'm wearing.

But maybe he can sense it.

"Bell," he mumbles, offering nothing else. No reassurances of who I am or what this is to him.

If he loves me, he doesn't say it. He never has. He holds his words and feelings hostage as he moves between my legs, pushing into me.

It's slow at first. Too slow. Like he's trying to show me things he can't say with words.

But sometimes you need words—something palpable other than the thoughts in your head and the feeling in your chest.

After a few minutes, we go back to what we know. We're not slow and sweet; we're fast and rough.

His thrusts quicken. He grabs the underside of my knee, bending my leg so he can push deeper.

"Fuck," he groans out, forehead to mine. "Fuck. Flip over."

He pulls out and I roll over onto my stomach. He grips my hips, positioning himself, and then he's filling me again, pushing into me from behind.

"Good?" he asks after a second, mouth on my shoulder.

"So good," I mumble into the mattress.

And it is. The way we move together, the way we are. How can this not be love? How can he not be so consumed by this feeling?

"I could fuck you forever," he groans out, killing me with his words.

Our bodies stick together, slick with sweat. He moves my hair out of the way, attaching his mouth to the back of my neck. It's sloppy, the way he moves and kisses, and I know he's close.

I feel his teeth sink into the skin on my shoulder, and I hope he leaves a mark. Want him to leave visible signs that I'm his.

His bite is gone, and so is the weight of him. He pulls out quick, then comes on my back, mumbling a string of curses along with my name.

They're just words that mean nothing—things said when you're caught up in this feeling—but for a second, it sounds a lot like love.

* * *

**I told myself I was going to update this story once a week. But I can't stick to that because I have no fucking self control. So. Daily updates it is.**

**Anyway. Thanks for reading. I immensely enjoy reading what y'all think about this story.**

**Kim and Vic are great and left me lovely feedback when I wrote this back in July. YEAH. I waited two months before posting. I guess I have ~some self control.**


	7. January 7

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**January**  
**…**

It's January; the month of frigid air. The sun is suspended in the sky, but it's merely a decoration. It doesn't warm my cheeks or melt the snow that crunches beneath my boots.

I'm so tired of the cold; this unwelcome feeling that attaches itself to the city and my bones, making everything appear brittle.

I'm heading back to work after my lunch hour, when I see Edward walking down the street. His back is to me, but I know it's him—a black beanie with a hole in it hides his unruly hair.

The sight of him catches me off guard, because I wasn't expecting to see him. This morning he said he'd be in Brooklyn for the day.

I push past a few slow walking pedestrians and make my way closer to him.

That's when I see her. The woman he's walking with. I didn't notice her before, but when Edward turns his head to acknowledge her, she's all I see.

I freeze. I'm far enough behind that he doesn't know I'm here. He's never cheated on me in the past, but doubt is a cruel thing. One little thought and it becomes a terrorist.

I keep up, but not too close. It feels like I'm spying, like I don't trust him. And it feels wrong. But seeing him with her feels worse.

They near a crosswalk. They stop, and she turns to him. They're not touching. They're speaking, but not smiling.

I catch a glimpse of her face. She's pretty, but not plain like me. Her hair is golden and her cheeks are rosy. I don't know who she is. Can't place her. It leaves me feeling unsettled.

Someone from behind bumps into me, knocking me forward. I turn around and apologize, even though I'm not the one who created this collision.

When I look forward, Edward and the woman are walking in opposite directions.

And just like that, they're gone.


	8. February 2

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**February**  
**…**

"Where're you going?" Edward asks, peeking his head inside the bathroom.

I glance up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. I fasten the backs on my earrings before answering.

"Ben was promoted, so Angela's throwing a little thing for him tonight."

"Oh." He scrubs a hand over his unshaven jaw. "He sent me some email about that."

This is the first I've heard about Edward being invited. Angela never mentioned anything to me. I've only seen her four times since our lunch that day in November, so maybe she believes this is a detail that doesn't concern me. It's not as though she knows my toothbrush rests on his counter and my clothes clutter his closet.

"Did you tell him you're going?" I question.

"I didn't reply." He says it so cool. Because he doesn't have to reply to people. Doesn't have to keep in touch—send birthday cards or Christmas presents. He does what he wants, shows up when he pleases. He's unapologetic in the way he treats his relationships. He doesn't care.

I'm the perfect example of allowing him to get away with this offense.

Seconds pass before he interrupts my thoughts with, "I have some shit to do around here."

I focus my attention elsewhere; swipe mascara along my lashes, an attempt to appear unaffected by his vagueness.

Ever since that day I saw him walking along the street with that other woman, I've been cursed with a new hobby: suspicion. When Edward returned home later that night, I asked how his day was. He said it was fine. Complained about the traffic heading back from Brooklyn. Offered no other details about how he spent his hours or who he spent them with. I didn't ask either. Didn't want to start a fight we couldn't finish.

Because Edward's only consistency comes in the form of leaving when things get tough.

Therefore my job is to keep things easy.

"Hey." His voice is soft. "Do you think you'll be out late?"

His question forces my eyes back on him, but he's not looking at me anymore. His focus is on the phone in his hand.

I hesitate long enough for him to notice my silence. He lifts his head, slipping his phone into his pocket.

"Probably not," I answer quietly. "I was planning on staying for an hour or two."

I wish I could be as vague as he is, but that's his game. And I couldn't win even if I tried.

He doesn't react to this, face calm and stare intent, like he's trying to work something out. It's times like this I wish I could read him; wish the pages of his book were coherent.

I toss the makeup cluttering the counter into my bag and make a move to leave. But Edward stays where he is, blocking the doorway.

He looks tense; tired. I run a hand up his chest, fingers grazing his jaw. I stare up at him, hoping for some kind of sign to end the doubt that's weaving through my head.

"Have fun," he mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to my temple.

And the doubt stays—a twisted, tangled mess.

* * *

**I know I said daily updates, but this'll be the last update before the weekend because... weekend. But I'll see y'all Monday? Thank you so much for reading!**


	9. March 10

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**March**  
**…**

The nights are still cool; Winter takes its time melting into Spring. Like it doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to give me the warmth I crave.

Edward's around less. He spends his days painting in a friend's empty studio a few blocks away. When he's not focusing on his own work, he's sketching pages for a children's book he was asked to illustrate. He keeps himself busy. And I don't want to compete with his passion, so I give him the space he needs.

When we're together, though, he's present; attentive. He fucks me like there's no one else. Leaves notes for me in the mornings before I wake up. We kiss and laugh and he whispers words to me in the dark and holds me while we sleep. It's never been like this before, so these things make up for his absence. These moments crumble my doubt.

And then one Saturday morning he leaves to run an errand. But his phone stays.

It's not deliberate. It's an accident on his part. He never leaves without it.

I stay hidden under the blanket, expecting him to walk back in and grab what he's forgotten. But five minutes turns into forty-five, and the phone is still on the nightstand.

It taunts me with its presence, its vibrations. The screen lights up, a number with an area code I'm unfamiliar with. It's not added to his contacts; no name attached to this caller.

I reach over and rest the phone in my palm, waiting for whoever's calling to realize no one is going to answer. The buzzing dies. The screen grows dim. And then a text from the same number is received.

The scale of curiosity shifts, all its weight leaning toward suspicion. And I hate this feeling; hate the way its pressure suffocates.

I've never invaded Edward's privacy before. Never truly had a reason to doubt him. Maybe the skepticism I feel only resides in my head. But his phone isn't locked, and if he had something to hide, he'd find a way to keep out unwanted eyes.

It's wrong. I can't deny it. My pulse races. I stare at this little device that holds so much power; holds so much knowledge about who Edward is. It knows things I never will, and that's what drives me to unlocking his phone.

My thumb swipes across the screen and I immediately open the message. There are no other texts that string this conversation together, just the one that was sent two minutes ago.

_I could have rescheduled the appointment. Let me know sooner than the day of next time_.

Reading the words a few times, I let their meaning sink in. It probably has to do with work. That's the only thing that makes sense.

I quickly scan his other texts, but nothing is out of the ordinary. Every conversation is straightforward.

Without anything to dissect, the weight on my chest disappears. My body loses its tension. Without fear and unease, the only feeling I'm left with is shame.

I've become that woman, the one who snoops and distrusts without reason.

I've become a woman who lets insecurity rule her life.

* * *

**This, along with other great stories, is up for Fic of the Week on The Lemonade Stand. If you'd like, go check them out and give 'em a vote: tehlemonadestand dot net**

**Thanks to Nic and Jaime for rec'ing my little story.**

**And thanks to Kim and Vic for just being lovely.**


	10. April 2

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**April 2  
...**

"He's seeing someone, Bella." It's the first thing Angela says when I answer the phone. Her words aren't followed by a hello or another pleasantry, just: "He's cheating."

This catches me off guard. I've worked hard to keep Edward a secret for months now, but maybe Angela knew all along. Maybe she knows _everything_.

Tears make an appearance before words. And then my mind is filled with _I knew it_. I fucking knew it.

"How do you know?" I ask, trying my hardest to stay composed.

There's silence. And then there's a muffled sob.

"He told me." She inhales, catching her breath, then losing it again. "Can you believe that? He thought I wouldn't be mad since he came clean. But he's been cheating and he's leaving me and I'm going to be alone."

_Ben_.

She's talking about Ben, not Edward.

"I'm so sorry." I repeat it several times before I mean it; before what she's saying really sinks in.

"What am I going to do?" she asks, but I don't know how to answer that for her. "What the fuck am I going to do? My dad got him a job. And then he fucking shits on me like this?"

"I don't know, Ange."

"Can I come over?"

No, she can't come over. She still doesn't know I live here, with Edward. And there's absolutely no way I can tell her now. The last thing she needs is to find out that one more person has been lying to her.

"No. I'll come to you," I suggest.

"Bella." She says my name, sounding alert—adamant. "My husband is cheating on me. I need to fucking get out of here. I need to cry and I need to fucking drink wine."

"I'm not at home," I lie. "I'm… at work. But I can meet you. I can meet you at the wine bar a few blocks from here."

Sniffles fill the line. "Fine."

I dress quickly. I send Edward a text, letting him know I'll be out. I don't give him details, hoping he'll ask. But he doesn't respond.

He's working, I tell myself. He's preoccupied and busy and focusing on things that are important to him, so they should be important to me, too.

But it's hard to think that way when I wake up alone and eat alone and sleep alone and I'm mostly just alone.

When I reach the bar, Angela is already there, an open bottle accompanying her.

I give her a hug, mumbling apologies that won't help her.

I tell her he's not worth it. That she can do better. I utter clichés about karma and that he'll get what he deserves.

But she doesn't look any more convinced than I do, because the fact remains: she was the one who was cheated on, the one who wasn't enough to have her husband promise forever and truly mean it.

We sit in the bar until the staff starts stacking chairs on tables and sending glances our way.

Angela cabs it home, but I opt for walking instead. It gives me time to wonder if I'll ever be enough for Edward to make any promises to me.

By the time I make it home, it's just past midnight. The place is dark, but the television is on. Low murmurs from an old show I never watched fill the room. There's an open beer sitting on the floor next to the couch, along with a container of half eaten Chinese.

"Edward?" I call out.

I flip off the television and turn on the kitchen light. I remove my jacket. I drink some water.

When I make my way into the bedroom, I find Edward.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed, head dropped.

"Hey. I didn't think you were here," I murmur.

He doesn't turn. "Got home an hour ago."

"Oh. I was out with Angela."

He exhales, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, I got your text."

"Well you didn't respond. So."

"I was busy," he says. And then he looks at me. "I'm sorry."

Hearing his apology stirs something inside of me.

_He's sorry_.

I bite the inside of my cheek. I could tell him it's okay. I could lie and say it doesn't matter and I don't miss him when he's not around. But the night's events and a bottle of wine have left me feeling vulnerable, making the words tumble from my mouth.

"It's not okay, Edward. This isn't okay."

A creased forehead and furrowed brows mask his features. "What?"

"Us. This isn't okay." I try to take a deep breath, but I begin to cry instead. I feel stupid. I hate confrontation and I feel pathetic crying in front of him, but I don't know how else to handle this.

"Hey." He stands from the bed. With bent knees and hands that steady my shoulders, he searches my face. "What's going on?"

I shake my head. "I feel like I'm going crazy."

He looks concerned and that's what I want. I want to know he cares.

"It's okay to feel like that sometimes," he assures me.

"No it's not. I went through your phone," I mutter, wiping at my cheeks, coming clean. "I thought you were fucking around, and you're not, and now I feel like shit."

He pulls back slightly. "You went through my phone?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but you're never here and you were being distant. What was I supposed to think?"

He studies me for a minute. His face gives nothing away.

"After all of the shit we've been through, I wasn't sure I could trust you," I admit, and it's like breathing. "You disappear and I hate it. I love you, but I need to trust you."

"You can trust me, Bella," he says gently. "I've never cheated on you. I'd never fucking do that."

I stare back at him. I hear what he's saying but it's so hard to believe him when his actions don't match his words. But I nod, sniffling out an _okay, okay, I'm sorry._

With a shake of his head, he tells me not to be sorry.

With his hands cupping my face, he wipes away my tears.

And with a kiss to my lips, for the first time, he tells me he loves me.

* * *

**Sorry for the wait. Thanks for readin', y'all.**

**Kim and Vic rock, okay? Okay.**


	11. May 11

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**May 11  
… **

Edward's phone rings in the middle of the night. He startles awake, quickly answering the call. He mumbles things like _okay_ and _are you sure_? before ending with _I'm on my way_.

I feel him leave the bed. I reach for my phone, surprised to see it's a little past three in the morning.

"Fuck," he curses quietly.

I can't make out his face in the dark. But I can hear the rustling of fabric and see the shadow of his body as he hurries to pull on clothes.

I sit up, startled. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just work shit."

I turn on the lamp. "Right _now_?"

He hears the accusation in my voice, hears what I don't beg: _tell me the truth_.

"Yeah. Go back to bed. I'll be home later."

Without another word, he disappears from the room. I stay in bed, letting my mind run wild with scenarios. My stomach aches with each thought that invades my mind.

I listen, waiting for the front door to open and close; waiting for the moment I'll be allowed to break down. But all I hear is Edward throwing up and the flushing of the toilet.

I stand outside the bathroom, knocking twice. Through the closed door, I ask if he's okay. When he doesn't respond, I let myself in.

His face is pale and his eyes are scared. His hair sticks to his forehead and with a shaky hand, he pushes it away. I've never seen him like this before. The man that exudes confidence isn't here and it scares me.

I kneel, reaching out to touch his arm but he pulls away—stands and pushes past me, heading to the kitchen.

"What's going on?" I demand, following behind him. "Are you sick?"

He ignores me. The faucet runs and he takes a handful of water. He swishes it around in his mouth before splashing his face.

"Hey," I try again. "Talk to me."

"Jesus," he snaps. His glare is ice and his words are cold. "I already fucking told you I have to deal with work."

His voice startles me. We don't speak to each other like that. We never have. Not even when we were at our worst.

Tears sting my eyes and blood burns my cheeks. "Don't talk to me like that. Don't you fucking dare."

"I'm sorry," he breathes out, squeezing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry."

He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, slipping them into his back pocket. He pulls on his boots and grabs his keys and avoids my stare.

"Seriously. You're leaving, just like that?" I question, this need to call him out stronger than ever before. "You're not going to tell me what's really going on?"

"I can't."

"Yes you _can_," I stress. "You can tell me anything."

He migrates toward the front door. "I'm under a lot of fucking pressure right now, so just drop it."

"Pressure with what? I don't know anything because you won't talk to me."

"I don't know _how_ to talk to you about it. You wouldn't fucking understand."

He blurs in my vision. I blink away the tears. "The only reason I don't understand whatever's going on is because you won't tell me."

"It's none if your business." His words cut, but it's what he says next that makes me bleed. "And if you're gonna give me shit then you can just fucking leave."

He says it is so simply. Like he's daring me. Like he doesn't believe I'll actually do it.

Ten minutes after he storms out of the apartment, I pack a bag. I don't cry. And I accept his challenge.

* * *

**I should stick to writing humor.  
**  
**Thanks for reading, though.**

**Kim and Vic are ballers.**


	12. May 11 pt 2

**Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.**

* * *

**May 11  
… **

The concern on my mother's face when I show up at her Staten Island home at six in the morning is enough to reduce me to tears.

But I didn't cry when I left Edward and I didn't cry on the ferry and I'm not going to cry now.

"Bella, honey, what on earth are you doing here? Is everything okay?"

She ushers me inside; grabs the bag from my shaking hand. More questions are asked, but I don't know how to respond.

I can't tell her I have nowhere else to go. That I broke the lease on my apartment to live with my boyfriend. That I can't confide in Angela because she'd find out I'd been lying to her. I can't let my mother know I've spent the last nine months alienating my life for Edward. And now I have nothing and no one because I made him everything.

"I just really needed to come home," I tell her.

She regards me for a moment, but doesn't push for another answer. Instead, she pulls me into a hug, pours me a mug of coffee and asks me what I want to eat for breakfast.

When my dad finds me sitting at the table, he feigns a look of shock. "I know that's not my daughter. It's not Christmas or Thanksgiving, and she never visits her old man just because."

I don't have to look up from my pancakes to know my mother is shooting him a look right now, warning him not to ask me why I'm here.

I give him some vague, nonchalant answer about having time off work. I doubt he buys it, but it seems to be enough to keep his questions from being asked.

He gently squeezes my shoulder as he passes by. "Well, I sure do like seeing your pretty face this morning, Bell."

His affection gives him away. He must have an idea of why I'm here. It shouldn't, but it makes me feel small and pathetic.

It makes me feel ashamed.

Around nine, I call the gallery and let them know I won't be in today. I tell them I don't know when I'll be back because I'm sick, and it doesn't even feel close to a lie.

Eventually my dad leaves for work and my mom runs around the house, trying to engage me in mindless chatter while she does housework. When it's after noon, I offer to run errands for her—any excuse to keep myself from feeling suffocated.

I drive aimlessly for a while, then pull into a Starbucks parking lot. I don't get out, just sit in the car, finally allowing myself to think about Edward.

I wonder what he's doing right now. What he was doing at three o'clock this morning. I wonder if he's home yet and if he knows I've left.

But mostly, I wonder if he even cares.

I replay our fight. I remind myself of the words he spoke to me and how he reacted.

Anger is still present, but now that I've physically put space between us, doubt has sunk in. It anchors me to my seat, weighing me down. I second-guess myself to the point of a panic attack.

Was I smothering him? Was I being too pushy and demanding? Did I let my insecurity plant doubt that grew so out of my control?

These questions stay unanswered, and the ache I feel refuses to disappear. I don't know how I ended up back in this place, with my heart and everything it controls at the mercy of Edward.

When the sun threatens to leave the sky and there's nowhere else to go, I head back to my parents' house.

As I pull into the driveway, I see my dad sitting on the porch with a beer. He doesn't say anything when I walk over, just pats the spot next to him on the porch swing.

"Your mom was worried you'd gone back to the city without eating dinner first." He grumbles out a laugh, but when I don't join in, his laughter turns into a cough. "This about Edward?"

I shrug. I don't want to give him any information. I don't want to tell him things that will make him hate the man I love. They've met a few times over the years, but I think my parents know more than they let on. My mother knew from the moment she met Edward he was someone I couldn't hold on to. I didn't speak to her for two weeks after she told me that. Three months later, Edward and I broke up for the first time.

My silence forces Dad to speak again.

"I know you don't want to hear it, but he doesn't deserve you, Bell."

I keep my gaze on the ground, because there's no concern plastered on its face, and I know that's exactly what I'll see if I look at him.

"It's complicated," I mumble. "You don't know anything."

He scoffs, then takes a moment to drink his beer. "I know you're here right now and not with him."

I turn my head and give him a look. "Don't act like you and mom never had problems."

"Like hell we didn't. But I would've never let that woman leave. And you better believe that."

His words stir something inside of me and I begin to cry. Ugly, loud sobs that I've kept inside.

I don't want my dad's words to reign true. I don't want to believe that Edward never loved me and probably never will.

But the truth remains: he's the one who told me to leave. He's the one who pushed me away. And I'm the one who let him.

My tears subside until the only feeling I'm left with is embarrassment.

"Give me the word and I'll march right on over to that son of a bitch's house and knock some sense into him."

I sniffle through subdued laughter. "Please don't. I appreciate it, but no."

Dad shakes his head, then stands. "I don't hate the man, because I know you love him. But he'll never be good enough for you, kiddo."

With those last words, I'm left alone on the porch, wondering if I'll ever be enough for Edward.


End file.
